


A Secret Love

by lizbianoddity



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending?, I still don't know how to use tags, M/M, Mild Smut, Reunions, Secret Relationship, that's for you to decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizbianoddity/pseuds/lizbianoddity
Summary: After years of being apart, Paul and Art finally reconcile along with their families. What their families don't know is the real reason Paul and Art brought them together-- a secret love they shared for years
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	A Secret Love

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for the story is loosely based on the Netflix documentary A Secret Love. Check it out if you haven't.
> 
> Also the Simons and Garfunkels don't follow COVID guidelines oops 0_0

The sound of the ringing doorbell echoes through the house. Paul is an expert at lying to himself, at the very least ignoring the situation until the last second. Sitting in his living room, he convinces himself that he’s only sitting here because he wants to. He’s not waiting for anything important. Nothing will majorly change his life today. There is no agitation to his nerves, preventing him to move wherever he wants to in his own house. He just chooses to sit here. This is what he tells himself. And still the doorbell makes him jump. Good lord, he is scared.

The same goes for the man standing on the other side of the door. On the drive down from New York City to Connecticut, Art keeps thinking about telling Kim to turn the car around and go back home. Sometimes in his more dramatic thoughts, he envisions grabbing the steering wheel from Kim, driving down the wrong side of the highway, crashing into an eighteen-wheeled truck and dying instantly. Of course, that’s just how he feels. He’d never risk the life of his family. Kim acts touchy-feely today, rubbing lightly on Art’s thigh whenever traffic comes to a stop, or squeezing his hand as they stand in front of Paul’s door. His sons, however, are less sympathetic. James just flew into NYC yesterday, and is now experiencing major jet lag. Beau is feeling much shyer than usual, knowing he’ll be the youngest person there. Nonetheless, the Garfunkel family has arrived. There’s no going back now.

Paul doesn’t mean to stall opening the door but standing up from the couch gets harder each year. Edie walks briskly down the hallway and opens the door herself. She and Kim give each other a bright hello and hug. As she shakes the hands of the Garfunkel boys, Paul finally makes his way to the door. The second his eyes land on Art, he feels his heart jump into his throat. He watches Art’s Adam’s apple bob up and down, knowing he feels the same way. Edie invites them in and takes Kim’s homemade vegetarian lasagna topped with tinfoil out of her hands. She leads them and Paul into the backyard, where the rest of the Simon family is. Adrian, Lulu, Gabriel, and Harper are sitting on the patio under an umbrella. They all wave hello as the Garfunkels situate themselves. As Edie puts the lasagna down with the rest of the food, she notices Paul and Art hanging back against the door frame, and Art tipping his baseball cap down from the sun.

“Are you boys joining us?” asks Edie with a smile.

“In a minute, honey. We need to talk first.” Paul rests his hand on Art’s shoulder. Art turns to Paul, silently stunned. They haven’t touched each other in ten years. With all the tension and fights between them, Art can’t fathom how Paul touched him so casually.

Paul looks at Art’s confusion and winks. They both feel sick. With that, they leave their wives and children, who are now deep in laughter and conversation, and head upstairs to Paul’s bedroom.

“Damn Cape Cod style houses” Paul jokingly complains. “Hate climbing those stairs.”

“Careful, Paul. You’re starting to sound like an old man.”

“Well, easy for you to say! What with all those walks you take; your legs must be solid rock by now!”

Art laughs at that. “When the entire city of New York is stuck in their apartments due to a pandemic, you can walk as long as you want.”

Paul sighs. “This is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

“Oh, most definitely. But we’ve all gotten tested and wearing masks. If Twitter finds out, what careers could they cancel? We both have smart kids, and we can play the ‘elderly’ card if we need to.”

“No, Art. I mean…all of this.”

Now it is Art’s turn to sigh. They both sit down on Paul’s window love seat, the balmy sun shining against their backs. Neither wants to break the silence in their conversation, ironic as they gathered their whole families for an event about breaking _another_ silence.

“Thank you for calling” says Art.

“Thanks for picking up.” Paul can’t help but laugh. “I don’t which is sadder, you begging for a phone call or reading you beg for a phone call in an interview.”

Art closes his eyes and tries to hide his creeping smile. “Even after all these years, you’re still an asshole.”

Paul smiles too. “I guess these two assholes always find their way back to each other.”

Art studies Paul’s face closely. Even though he’s smiling, Paul’s eyes start to sparkle in the sunlight. Art doesn’t know how he could handle Paul crying right now. So, he grabs his hand. It’s so calloused. Art can’t tell whether the callousness comes from Paul’s old age or his constant guitar picking. Then Art thinks back how Paul’s hands were always calloused. How when they were alone together, he would complain to Paul about rubbing some goddam lotion in his hands or wearing a fucking glove. He hated how Paul’s skin scratched against his own, finding red marks the next morning on his chest and back. Then Art remembers the days, weeks, months, and years when they didn’t talk to each other and how he laid in his bed in the middle of the night wide awake, sometimes with someone else sleeping next to him, wishing he had those calloused hands back on his body.

“What are we doing Artie?” Paul’s voice brings Art back to reality. Their hands still haven’t let go of each other.

“Something that needs to happen. It’s better to come out now than it ever has.” Art then starts laughing. “Hell, I’m already out! Kids are calling me ‘the bi king,’ god bless their hearts.”

“And…” Paul squeezes Art’s hand tighter. “…and it’s okay?”

On instinct, Art reaches out to Paul and strokes down his jawline, resting his hand on his chin. Paul doesn’t flinch away.

“Our wives adore us. Our kids are smarter than we were at that age. This pandemic, in its own fucked-up way, showed us how much we fully appreciate those in our lives.” Art’s hand leaves Paul’s face. “And that means living our full truth.”

Paul nods at Art’s words.

“But with that all said, I’m scared too, Paul.”

Paul looks up, surprised. “How did—”

“I’ve known you long enough to know you’d never admit it.” Art gives a sheepish grin. Paul echoes Art’s smile.

“If anything, I’m glad were doing this and not telling our families that one of us is dying” says Paul.

Art puts his hand over his chest. “Oh, my poor Kim! Ever since I announced this makeshift family reunion, she just assumed that this is about something tragic. She’s never said it outright, but I can tell.”

“I hate that we’re stalling this even further.”

“So, is that it? Was this just a pep talk? You brought me upstairs so I could convince you to face our families together?”

A faint blush covered Paul’s cheeks. “No. That’s part of it.”

“What about the other?”

Just then, Paul reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out a small key. He trudges over to the bed and pulls out a handheld chest from under it.

“No one has ever seen what’s inside here” says Paul. “Not my kids, not Edie, not Carrie, not Peggy, not Kathy. No one.”

He turns the key inside the lock. When the chest opens, the first thing they each notice is the stale smell embedded inside the wood.

“Jesus, Paul!” Art cries. “You want us to get _high_ before we see our children?”

Paul giggles. “Sometimes I hid some loose joints in there, but that’s not it, you idiot. Look inside.”

Art peers into the chest. What he sees takes his breath away. Inside are several mementoes Paul collected over the years about themselves. He organized them in chronological order, as the program for the talent show Art performed when he was eight rests on top. For over half a century, Paul kept that. Art holds it up to his near-sighted eyes and notices his name circled with a red pen.

“I can never hear the original song ever again” Paul says. “It never sounds as good as when you sang it.”

Art has so many questions, but he can’t stop there. He searches through the newspaper clippings, magazine interviews, and photoshoots of them during their Simon & Garfunkel days. He finds their Tom and Jerry ad of their comically giant heads shooting up in a rocket towards the Billboard charts. He finds Paul’s earliest drafts of his songs, crossing out he/him pronouns or any mention of loving Art.

Art finds an envelope full of polaroids. They are all of himself and Paul inside their various hotels they stayed in during touring. Mostly they’re of Art, the subject most dear to Paul. Art looks at a younger version of himself lying in a bed shirtless. The morning sun shines against him, and he smiles lovingly towards the camera. Art forgot how many pictures Paul took and wonders how the paparazzi never stole or released them. Then the last photo he finds brings back all the memories. He and Paul are in the bathroom kissing. The flash of the camera shines in the mirror, almost blocking out Paul’s face. Art chuckles to himself as he remembers how long it took to finally get that perfect shot as Paul’s finger missed the button or held the camera crooked.

He then reads reviews of their performance in Central Park, critics praising them and their sold-out show.

“Still think it was a disaster?” asks Paul

“Well _now_ I don’t!” Art laughs.

“I don’t know how you managed to pull off that toupee.”

Art sighs pitifully. “Can’t be worse than what came later on.”

Paul laughs so hard he grips Art’s shoulder tightly. Art rolls his eyes.

He then reaches to the bottom of the chest. It’s lined with the poems he wrote about Paul. Paul must have cut them out of his book. As he reads his own verses, Art sees quite a few that don’t belong to him.

“Paul?” he asks. “Whose poems are these?”

Paul gives a small smile. “Those are song lyrics. That I wrote.”

“Oh. Have you ever thought about recording them?”

“Well, they’re not for me… they were for you.”

Art stares at Paul, shocked and confused.

“After we broke up,” Paul starts explaining, “I listened to the albums you put out. All ten of them. Look, I know you’re the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, and that’s great, but it leads to some cheesy-ass songs. So, I wrote some songs that, you know, would butch things up a bit.”

This news flabbergasts Art. “You kept writing songs for me.”

“Sometimes subtlety is needed!” Paul defends. “Do you know how many love songs I wrote about you and you’ve _never_ called me out? Jesus Christ, our last album was about you alone!”

“Of course, I know our last album was about me! ‘Tom, get your plane right on time?’ I’ve known for fifty years! I even asked you to write a song about Frank Lloyd Wright!”

Paul’s face falls.

“What?” asks Art.

“Artie…” Paul stammers, “That…that wasn’t our last album.”

Art freezes. His life in the early 80’s hits him all at once. The fighting in the studio. The flubs during their live performances. That phone call that killed any comradery he had left with Paul. He feels all of this in the parts that Paul named the new album sans Art after.

“I thought…” Art says, breaking the silence, “I thought it was for Carrie. That’s what you said. That’s why I couldn’t record half of those songs with you.”

Paul looks down at his loafers. “I did say that didn’t I?” He forces himself to look at Art. “Those songs…they’re all about how people can’t understand this relationship. They’re also about how much I love you. ‘Hearts and Bones— ‘” Paul chokes up. “I couldn’t sing it with you. I needed to sing it _to_ you. Artie, I…I still…regret—”

Art brings Paul close to his chest, stopping him from talking any further. He can’t let Paul apologize today. There will come a time when they will apologize and defend the words and actions that they made against each other over the years, but today is not that day. It can’t be. They can’t focus on how much they hated each other. 

After Paul calms down and locks his chest, he then asks Art the question they avoided asking this whole time.

“So. When we tell our families about our decades long secret relationship…what happens next?”

Art doesn’t know where to start. The know-it-all of the duo has no answer to give.

“Do we…do we leave our wives?” asks Paul.

Art’s eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, my god, no! I love Kim!”

“And I love Edie!” Paul shouts back.

“Then why did you ask that?”

“Because…because when we tell them about us, then they’ll think we’re getting together and living the rest of our days as a couple.”

“But that’s not what we’re doing!”

“I know!”

“That chapter of our life is done!”

“I know that too!”

Both men now are red in the faces and sweating profusely. They sit back down after not realizing that they were standing. They both agreed to avoid fighting today, but even now they couldn’t help but argue. They both hope this is the worst they get.

After their hard breathing dies down, suddenly a meek voice comes from Paul.

“Do…do you…do you want that chapter to be done?”

Art slowly looks over to Paul. He seems much smaller now than before.

“Do you?” Art asks. Paul doesn’t look at him, preferring to stare at the floor.

“I loved you since you were eight. Even when we fought, I still loved you. At first, I just thought I only wanted to sing with you. Then I realized it was so much more. I have a great life, a successful career, a beautiful wife and four kids sitting outside right now.” He then looks at Art.

“But I don’t have you, Artie.”

Art can’t look at Paul either, only his knee.

“I feel the exactly the same, but with more illustrative language.”

Paul lightly slaps Art’s arm and they both laugh, not because anything was funny but to prevent themselves from crying.

“So,” Paul asks again, “do you think that chapter is done?”

Art listens to the sounds of laughter outside the window.

“I think it’s too late for us, Paul.”

“But if we didn’t have them” Paul begins, “if somehow, we never married or had kids, if everything happened the same way, would you want us to be a public couple?”

Art sighs heavily through his nose. He takes off his baseball cap and rubs his bald scalp.

“I think,” Art says, “that Simon & Garfunkel shared more couplings than most people do in their lifetime. We’ve been through every up and down possible. But I think that’s as far as we can go. Not every relationship is supposed to last forever. Some are meant to last only days, some only weeks, or months. Some can last for fifty odd years and still end. But the length of these relationships does not hinder their meaning. The years of Simon & Garfunkel are the best and worst in my life, and I couldn’t ask for anything more or less from you.”

And now Paul and Art can finally look at each other. They both stare deep into their eyes, Paul’s puppy-dog browns, and Art’s haunting yet soulful blues. These men watched their bodies change, their skin wrinkle and hairlines thin. They are far from the youthful men they were back in the 60’s. They know they’ll never have those bodies from when they explored, devoured, cherished, entangled, and enraptured each other between hotel bedsheets.

Yet they will always have those eyes.

Neither knows who closed the gap between them, but they don’t care. Paul’s lips are on top of Art’s, reveling in his warmth. Art grabs Paul’s hips and pulls him in close. The mechanics of their kiss are muscle memory, starting all the way back to their awkward first attempt in a hot-boxed car, to stolen kisses in recording booths, to soft, lingering ones in the countless morning after’s. This kiss is both a greeting, a parting, and none of the above.

Just as it began, it ended too soon. Paul breaks the kiss and watches Art slowly reopens his eyes. They bask in a rare good silence between them, staring down at their families gathered on Paul’s patio. They watch the older kids act fascinated with Beau’s Nintendo Switch.

“Do you ever realize,” Paul asks, “that all of this happened because we met in a play at eleven years old?”

“All the time.” Art smiles and Paul smiles back.

A silent agreement makes them realize their families waited long enough. They both help each other off the love seat, but not before Paul lays his head against Art’s shoulder. Art doesn’t know if it’s an “I love you” gesture or just the need for closeness. He accepts it either way.

“You didn’t have to bend down” Paul marvels.

“You fucked up my back” Art mocks.

“If I listed everything of yours that I fucked, we’ll be here forever” Paul throws right back. After a laugh, they leave Paul’s bedroom and carefully walk down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I don't post a lot of Simon & Garfunkel content, but if you want you can follow me on Tumblr @lizbianoddity


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